Cool Hand Luke (2 page)

So we build our Time. Each of our days is connected to the other by all sorts of personal artifacts, attached together by glue and by dream, nailed down tight by the hammering of our unanimous heels which respond to the First Bell by drumming on the floor all at once. In exactly five minutes we are ready for breakfast. The Wicker Man unlocks the outside door and then the gate to the Chute. Carr steps aside and we begin counting off, each of us twisting to speak over his shoulder. Like a key inserted in a lock, the line enters the dawn through the door to open still another day.

AND EVERY DAY IT'S THE SAME THING. EXCEPT that today there was a difference. We did the same work, felt the same sensations, exercised the same kind of talk and gesture. But the day was paced by strange silences and a deep sense of embarrassment. Noises seemed sharper. Movements were stiffer and more pronounced. And from time to time an eye would turn up, roll from left to right and then turn down again.

This morning when we went out, the Bull Gang was put to work on what we call the Rattlesnake Road in honor of all those serpents which we have killed there, using the rawhide-skins for the wallets which we make on weekends and sell to the Free World for spending money. The Bull Gang was yo-yoing the grass on both sides of the road, the shotgun guards scattered all around us.

But the thing was: the Rattlesnake Road leads to the old nigger church, the one across the road from the lookout tower of the forest rangers.

To you a yo-yo would be a weed cutter, a light frame of unpainted wood with a handle fastened to an A-shaped yoke that supports a thin, straight, double-edge blade. It is swung from side to side, slashing through the weeds with vigorous forehand and backhand strokes. But to us a yo-yo is the pendulum of that great invisible clock that slowly ticks away the hours of our Time.

And today we covered more than two miles, working in a staggered line, each man behind the next and over to one side so that the lanes of work overlapped and so that if a yo-yo slipped out of a sweaty hand it would not hit anyone. We strolled along, shaving the shoulder of the highway and the armpit of the ditch, swinging our tools back and forth in a fast but natural rhythm broken only when a clump of dog fennels or palmettos was particularly tough and a man had to hack away with both hands. Or perhaps we would come to a patch of sandspurs or Florida cactus and a man would be hit by the flying debris. Swearing under his breath, he would lower his yo-yo and pull
the spines out of his back and arms but first yelling out to the nearest guard,

Pullin‘ it out here,
Boss!

Yeah. O.K. Gator. Pull it out.

All morning we swished along in our echelon formation like a squadron of airplanes soaring overhead through the blue, our yo-yos beating like mad propellers bearing us aloft. As always, the traffic roared right by us in both directions; the sedans and the jalopies, a farmer's pickup, a Greyhound bus, the semi's going by with their exhausts on high, their diesels pounding away.

As you rolled on by, soft and upholstered in your Cadillacs, heading south towards Miami and towards Paradise just beyond, you could look out from your air conditioned comfort and see the red flag stuck in the ground with the white letters “Slow Down—Men at Work.” Then you saw a guard standing at ease with his weight on one leg, his pistol hanging low in its holster, his shotgun dangling over his shoulder. Then the black and yellow trucks, Jim the Trustee carrying the water bucket with one arm held out for balance, more guards dressed in wrinkled uniforms of forest green and cowboy hats all sweated and stained, shapeless and worn. And all eyes were focused on the staggered column of barechested men, their skin burnt black, wearing striped caps cocked at every conceivable angle and light gray pants with a white vertical stripe down the legs.

You looked out at us through the windows, your
eyes full of curiosity and disgust, your faces showing your fear. And that suited us just fine.

A school bus went by, two kids leaning out the windows and hollering something. A State-highway patrolman cruised slowly along, followed by a long line of cars, the drivers all afraid of passing around him. Later came a house trailer from Michigan, an old jeep pulling an outboard boat, three army trucks in a row, a motorcyclist and a truckload of citrus fruit.

But we kept our eyes on the ground, absorbed in our work, for Eyeballing is punishable by being put in the Box. And we knew that today the guards were nervous. They chewed their quids and scratched their ears and rearranged their hats. They did all the things they always do. But they were watching us. They were waiting.

Patiently we swung our tools, the grass rustling with every cut. At the end of each blurred arc of flashing steel there rose a fluttering green cloud within which we dawdled like the sleepwalkers we are, lulled by the constant swish of the passing traffic and the subtle melody tinkling from the ankles of the Chain Men.

The hours passed. Every few hundred yards Rabbit the Waterboy would take the flag in front and walk up the road with it to stick it in the ground. Jim the Trustee would go back and bring up the flag from the rear. Then each of them would start up one of the trucks and drive it ahead to park and wait for us to catch up with our slow and ponderous advance.

Every so often, Rabbit would fill the water bucket from the big oak barrel in the tool truck, waddling as he went down the road. He went to the Walking Boss first, who took the dipper, drank a few mouthfuls and threw the rest on the ground with a splat. Then Rabbit went to each of the guards in turn, crossing the road and struggling up and down the embankment to offer them the dipper. Then he went from one convict to another, each one putting down his yo-yo and yelling out—

Gettin‘ a drink here,
Boss!

Yeah. Get a drink there, Bama.

Eagerly the man would drink down the water, some of it running down his heaving chest and belly, ignored and lost in the sheen of sweat that glistened on his body and made his pants sopping wet and muddy. Again he would fill the dipper, pausing with gasping breaths. Then he put it back in the bucket and resumed his rhythmic swinging, Rabbit dodging the flashing yo-yos, moving up to the next man in line who lowered his blade, looked around him at the armed horizon and called out—

Drinkin‘ it up, here.
Boss!

O.K. Drink it up.

Behind us or beside us strolled the Walking Boss, idly swinging his hickory cane. As usual, he gave us no sign whatever of his thoughts or his mood. Sometimes he would sit on the running board of one of the trucks or sit inside the cab. And sometimes he would light up a cigar and walk within a fragrant and inspired cloud, pulling out his enormous pocket watch and putting it back
while we swung our yo-yos and looked down at our feet.

The time went on. Occasionally there would be a call.

Pourin‘ it out down here—Boss!

O.K. Pour it out.

Making sure that all the guards had heard, the man would go down to the bottom of the slope and drop to his knees with his back turned to the road, his shoulders slumped in a humble attitude, ignoring the passing Free World while genuflecting over the puddle of piss which slowly spread between his knees. Then—

Gettin‘ back here, Boss Brown!

All right. Git on back.

Not long before Smoking Period there was a sudden yell somewhere up near the head of the line. I could see Stupid Blondie up there hitting at the ground with his yo-yo and yelling—

Snake! Snake!

The whole gang came alive, men dodging here and there in a melee of swinging tools, trying to stop the rattler skimming through the grass. But no one could go more than three or four feet from his position, each one guarding his own area and flailing away as the snake zigzagged first one way and then another. Once it almost got away under the barbed wire that bordered the edge of the right of way. But Dragline was bringing up the rear, working along the fence. Normally a Chain Man has the privilege of working on top of the shoulder where the walking is much easier. But of course Dragline was in a very deep
mood today, suffering from a bad case of the Black Ass, remembering all the things that had happened on this road and remembering all the things that had happened before that.

When Dragline saw the snake heading his way he ran a few steps forward to head it off but his shackles caught on a palmetto root at the very moment that he swung his yo-yo. He lost his balance and fell to his knees, his yo-yo hitting the ground, sending up a geyser of dry sand and then bouncing off a strand of barbed wire, making it vibrate with a dull hum. Dragline tried to get up and swing again but the rattler had already altered course, heading back into the thicker grass at the bottom of the ditch.

Cottontop blocked its path and the snake swiftly contracted itself into a coil, his head pulled back, its rattles buzzing away as Cottontop yelled out—

Ah got‘iml Ah got 'im!

Cottontop braced himself, nervously advanced a step, faltered as the buzzing grew more violent. Then he swung the yo-yo with both hands like the desperate reflex of a batter trying to hit a low foul. But he missed and ducked back just as the rattler struck, its body stretching out about two feet, its jaws agape. The snake went back into its coil as Cottontop braced himself again. In the meantime everybody was yelling, the convicts and the guards as well—

Git ‘im Cottontop. Git 'im.

Git ‘im hell. Bite'im on the ass.

Watch it Cottontop. Don't git yourself snake-bit.

He ain't gonna git bit. He
cain't
git bit. A snake's got better sense'n to bite a Chain Ganger. With all the bean juice in Cottontop's blood, it'd be the snake that'd git poisoned. He'd jes curl hisself up and die on the spot.

But Stupid Blondie was wilder than all the rest, pulling his cap off and throwing it down on the ground.

Cottontop! You be careful now! Don't cut him up too much. You'll ruin his hide! You hear? That's my hide now. Don't forget. I was the first to see him. I called “snake” first.

Again Cottontop prepared to swing and then flinched. The snake struck again, recovered, hissed and rattled. Cottontop stumbled backwards, came in again and swung. There was a wild thrashing in the grass, big loops of black spotted yellow flexing and coiling as Cottontop yelled out—

Ah got ‘iml Ah got 'iml Cut his haid smack dab off!

You didn't cut up his hide, did yuh?

Then the Walking Boss, Jim the Trustee and Rabbit came up the road from the tool truck. Jim came down the ditch slope to where Cottontop was standing and picked up the still-jerking snake by the tail. It was a Diamond Back. About six feet long. As Jim started back up the slope he made a movement as if to throw the snake at Rabbit who shrank back, his face grimaced with fear. Boss Paul smiled and called over from across the road.

What's the matter, Rabbit? Don't they have no rattlers up in Canada? Or is it too cold up there?

And Rabbit answered with the imitation accent he has acquired, using the fawning inflections that are prescribed for a Waterboy, for a Yankee and a Foreigner.

Yeah Boss. We got‘im aw right. Lot's of 'em. But we made a deal. Ah leaves them alone and they leaves me alone.

Cottontop was still explaining to everybody how he outmaneuvered the snake. Jim had already started to skin it with the pocketknife that trustees are allowed to carry. Dragline stayed in his proper place, examining the edge of his yo-yo with a frown.

Damn your ass, Blondie. You made me nick my yo-yo. Ah oughtta make you give me a cold drink tonight.

How come I gotta give
you
a cold drink, Drag? You didn't kill it. It was Cottontop who killed it.

Ah know that, stupid. But ah nicked mah gawd damned yo-yo
tryin‘.

Cottontop was all excited at his potential reward.

Ah want a Pepsi, Blondie. Hear? A Pepsi.

Don't forget mine, Blondie, said Jim, looking up from his work. But Dragline wasn't through.

Ah oughtta hire me a lawyer and sue you, Blondie. For damages. Ah just sharpened mah yo-yo yesterday.

Aw, come on Dragline. Ah'm sorry. Ah couldn't help it.

Sorry? Yeah. Ah knows you're sorry. You're the sorriest thing ah ever saw. But eff'n you don't give me a cold drink the least you can do is sharpen up mah yo-yo at Smoke Time. After all, you git to keep the hide. It'll make
about six good wallet backs. At least. And here ah ain't even got a lousy cold drink to mah name.

Aw. All right, Drag. Ah'll sharpen it up for you at Bean Time.

By then the guards had relaxed, their grips no longer tight on their gun stocks. But we knew better than to go too far. There was a few minutes more of uninhibited talking and gestures and then the work was resumed, everyone taking his place without a word and beginning to swing his yo-yo, the Bull Gang slowly moving past the Walking Boss who stood on the shoulder of the road, leaning on his cane.

For another hour we walked along, swinging our tools back and forth, the traffic roaring along beside us. As usual, I was somewhere in the middle, lost in my daydreams about the past, once again going over all the things that I knew about Cool Hand Luke. And yet at the same time, more than anything else, I was probably worrying about the blister that was beginning on the side of my thumb, reaching out with one hand to slice away some milkweeds and then on the return stroke changing hands to trim a clump of grass close to the ground.

By the sun and by practice, we could tell it was nearly ten o‘clock. Eyes began to question. The yo-yos began to waver. Heads slyly turned towards Dragline, who has a phenomenal ability to guess the time, searching his attitude for some sign.

The Walking Boss strolled along the edge of the road, looking at the passing cars, lazily swinging his Stick.
With a slow and idle movement he pulled at the braided leather fob and looked down at his pocket watch. Slowly he stuffed it back and continued strolling. After a long pause, lazily, with a deep, gutteral growl, he drawled out,